


Small Talk In The Yellowstone National Ballpark

by EyePencils



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27780205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyePencils/pseuds/EyePencils
Summary: In the ramshackle Yellowstone National Ballpark (not to be confused with the Parkpark), the games go on long. There's very little to do while waiting for your teammates to bat, pitch, and play. Two such players sit idle in their dugout, catching up on what's been going on since the incineration of their friend.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Small Talk In The Yellowstone National Ballpark

Pop.

"Ach, yuck." Grumbles a burly, bearded man as he sits in a dugout in the Yellowstone National Ballpark - which was nothing more than a lean-to put together against a fallen tree. His sausage-like fingers pick at the off-color bubblegum now trapped in his facial hair. A second bearded man, far more lean, far more wispy, far more sagely in appearance, gives the first a leery stare. Both wear a distinct, reddish uniform with gold accents, and a burst of sparkles on their chest. Both, also, wear pointy, floppy hats.

"I'm not getting that out for you again, Frank." Hisses the older of the two. His gaze darts back to the blaseball diamond... through a pair of binoculars. His floppy hat sags as he leans forward in his seat, fixated on someone in the far distance. Too far for 'Frank' to see, at least. The man known as Frank reaches out and fixes the older man's hat. "Looks like Chorby's taking her time. We might have a bit." Mumbles the sage.

Over the air, a static voice calls out-

**"STRIKE THREE."**

They both pause. The sage peers up from his binoculars, joining Frank in staring at the canopy. They wait with strained ears.

**"... STRIKE FOUR."**

Minutes pass.

**"STRIKE FIVE."**

At that, as the umpire's booming voice continues, the sagely man leans back. Frank shoots him a bubble-gum dipped grin.

"So, Bev..."

The sage named Bev raises a brow, turning his attention to his teammate.

"You think they're adjusting? To the lineup change, I mean." He gestures vaguely in the direction of first base. Bev gives a weary shrug.

"Incineration is the name of the game, Frank. We all adjust. It's been... what. Nearly a full season now? The youngsters are more familiar with that than you give them credit for." He pauses as the Umpire's voice echoes; **'STRIKE NINE.'** At that, Bev continues. "Chorby bounces back from just about anything. Glover's a former Taco, they're used to tragedy. And Eiz... She's at least talking about it with people."

Frank shakes his head. "You know that's not who I'm worried about, Bevan. I'm thinking about the ones unaccustomed to... You know. Dealing with death. Loss. Pain. The ones who haven't addressed it yet." He reaches up to 'comb' his pointy tipped hat back. "Call it fatherly intuition. Or common sense. But you can't keep expecting the 'strong' players to endure forever. They think differently than you or me. And you have to keep that in mind, you know."

Bevan's frown deepens. He peers through the binoculars again, watching the distant pitcher. The many-armed, slightly glistening player in white and blue stares at Chorby with distinctly alien eyes. Another pitch.

**'STRIKE FOURTEEN.'**

A twitch in the pitcher's face is the only indication of frustration, and impatience. That, at least, gets a smirk out of Bevan. Playing the Moist Talkers was a good way to wile away the day without interruption.

"You should talk to her."

Bevan perks up from his binoculars. Frank's soft expression had turned somber while he was looking away. Severe, even. Bevan shakes his head.

"Francisco, you've known Curry for eleven seasons now. When was the last time she ever wanted to talk about anything?"

"When was the last time you ever asked, 'Team captain'?"

Though softly spoken, the barbed words silence Bevan once more. Francisco's gentle demeanor often made Bevan forget how seriously he took the game. At least, when it came to the players.

Bevan shakes his head.

"Maybe."

The umpire booms- **"BALL ONE."**

And like the crack of a whip, a high-pitched, screeching voice on the other end of the diamond retorts- _"BULL$#!^!"_

Frank straightens in his seat. Bevan stands up. With a wordless gesture through the air, a circle of visible static opens before him and Frank. On home plate is the green-skinned, rosy cheeked Chorby. Wide eyes stare in mute surprise -- _though when didn't they?_. Behind her is the otherworldly presence of the umpire. Stoic and unreadable. Play was on hold-- Never a good sign. Even the pitcher pauses to watch the altercation, as another player storms her way to the batter and umpire; Barely taller than a foot, carried by bat-like wings, She had lavender skin, red eyes, and a fearsome scowl plastered on her face.

"Oh, Curry." Bevan whispers wearily. He and Frank continue to watch.

"Ball?! You call that Ball?!" Shrieks Curry. Her nails-on-chalkboard voice rises, catching on over whatever force was amplifying the umpire. The whole park could hear it now. "How many eyes do you have under that mask, Ump!?! Because I got two and even I saw that pitch was in, and that batter #$%!ing swung!"

**"THE PITCH WAS-"**

"WHAT!? WHAT! HUH?! How about you #$%!ing speak up, Ump! I can barely hear you over the bull$#!% leaking out of your mouth! TELL ME THAT WASN'T A STRIKE AGAIN!"

The Ump stares. Curry glares back. From a mile away, Bevan shares a look with Francisco, before he hops out of his dug-out and starts to jog his way over. It wasn't as if he was afraid or anything. Bevan hadn't really been afraid of much when it came to Blaseball. Whatever happens, happens. You had to adopt that sort of laissez-faire attitude when you were in the game. There were always greater forces at play than just a handful of players on a diamond, and other, wizardly things he didn't like to get into details about. But he was concerned; concerned he wasn't going to get there before Curry actually went off. He didn't really need the amplification magic to hear Curry, at this point. When she wanted to be heard, she'd be heard.

"IF I MADE BANK OFF OF EVERY $#!^ CALL MADE BY EVERY $#!^ UMPIRE IN THIS FORSAKEN $#!^ GAME DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'D BE? I'D BE A #$%!ING MILLIONAIRE! YOU COULDN'T CALL A GAME IF YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT! AND IT'S TOO BAD IT DOESN'T, ELSE YOU MIGHT ACTUALLY GIVE A $#!^ ABOUT DOING A GOOD JOB!"

The Umpire's overwhelming size seems to grow when compared to the devil, but they do not move.

And all fell silent over the Yellowstone National Ballpark. Bevan dismissed his spell, and started legging it.

\---

Meanwhile, on the actual diamond, Curry and the Umpire's eyes lock on each other. The Umpire is the first to break their mutual silence.

**"WHAT _IF_ YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT?"**

The Umpire's voice rumbles, unamplified, specifically for Curry to hear. Chorby, an unfortunate witness, had made the decision to stay out of this, and inched her way several feet back. Curry, the unfortunate aggressor, would not relent, and got several inches closer. The Imp points skyward with a sneer.

"I'm not seeing an eclipse in the sky, you Back Alley Bouncer Reject." She practically spits venom with the amount of vitriol in her words. "So why don't you take your big tough guy attitude, get yourself a pair of glasses, maybe a new pair of eyes, _and learn the game before you start making garbage #$%!ing calls like that again, huh?"_

**"IT WAS A BALL."**

Curry's red eye glare narrows.

"That. Was. A. #$%!ing. Strike."

**"IF THIS INANITY CONTINUES TO IMPEDE PLAY, THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES."**

Curry spreads her arms wide.

"Yeah? Well go ahead, #$%!er. Punish me. I'd like to #$%!ing see you try."

But before the Umpire can respond, a miniature clap of thunder reverberates nearby. Bevan appears in a ring of electrical discharge. It sheds from his robe-like uniform, and he pats down any static clinging to his shoulders. He clears his throat, showing only a flash of a bashful smile to the Umpire.

"I forgot I could do that, sorry for the delay-- Curry!" He steps up and puts himself between the Imp and the Umpire, hands at the ready. "Regardless of the validity of the Umpire's call, I would like to remind you that we're not even a month into the new season, and we're already seven runs down in this game. Let it go."

Curry's fury turns instead to the wizard, almost entirely abandoning her earlier tirade.

"Well laa-dee-daa, milk chewer, I didn't know the Magic _wasn't supposed to_ try and win their games." She hisses. "My apologies, wizard of the roast-" She pokes his soft gut. "- Maybe I'll just start throwing wide; No Eyes over there can consider them strikes and we might actually win a game for once, how about that?"

The Umpire shifts their weight, and Bevan gives a wry smile to the imposing figure. He puts himself fully between the two, slowly moving away from the Umpire. He gently shoves the Imp back from the strike zone. He speaks conspiratorially towards Curry.

"If you're keen on talking strategy, Francisco and I found a dugout between third and home we've been holed up in for now. Otherwise, there are better things to nitpick about the Umpires jobs, I imagine, than whether or not Patterson is capable of throwing a Ball." _Step, step, step._ With each step, Curry follows along, keeping a steady wing-beat in front of Bevan's face. Much better, in the wizard's opinion. Bevan did not dare to look over his shoulder, but if he did, he'd most likely see the Umpire watching them go with that same, unreadable expression. Instead, Bevan decided to focus on Curry's very readable scowl. _"... Unless you don't think we have a chance to make a comeback this season?"_ He adds in a hushed tone.

The two continue on their way. Play resumes, but thankfully for Bevan, Curry doesn't even notice when the umpire calls **'STRIKE EIGHTEEN. YOU'RE OUT'**. She lets out a low groan, a tinge of sadness in her voice. Bevan keeps his eyes trained on her.

"Stupid #$%!ing umpires..." The cursing dies down to a non-earsplitting volume. "We had a chance, you know. We really did. I think she had a lot of promise. After Turq, I thought things were looking up. Like wow. Magic being a team that can compete, you know? You don't see that coming from us, no sirree." Bevan offers an arm, upon which she perches. The more she speaks, the more bitter her tone becomes. "I guess- I guess I just thought things would be different with her. Annie was a _star_ , the kind of star perfect for Yellowstone. And then, before we really got to take off, together, and see it happen--"

" _It happened._ I know." Bevan grumbles- The only thing left was a pair of sunglasses. How could he forget? He still kept it on hand. _In case of emergencies,_ he had told himself. "You're allowed to be disappointed about that, Curry. The Hells know you're disappointed about everything else." That, at the very least, gets a dry laugh from the imp. She flexes her wings, fixing her own posture. Bevan takes it as a sign to continue. "Remember that we're playing their game out there. We don't get to plan ahead like that. We just have to adjust." Bevan pauses to pick a few twigs from his sandals, single-handedly. "... And when we see an opportunity, we seize it. We don't try to get them on technicalities. It doesn't work. Just focus on doing your best. And yell at our players, if you must. Yelling at umpires is a lost cause."

Curry's tail swishes. Her red eyes roll. "Aww. Starting to sound like Frank there, Bevan. Getting a bit worried about your star pitcher?" Bevan stops in his tracks to give a stony stare to the imp. There's a distinct sadness in his reply.

_"Yes."_

And Curry deigns not to reply. Bevan had some assumptions why Curry didn't push the conversation further, but didn't-- wouldn't-- ask. At the end of the day, if Curry was going to talk about it, she'd talk about it. After all, Bevan wasn't Frank-- And if anyone was going to have success on having a heart-to-heart, Bevan would be the last person to rely on. That'd be too stressful for him. No, instead, Bevan was just relieved: _Relieved that she didn't ask why they didn't teleport back, really._ He didn't need to get ridiculed for the rest of the week for not preparing more spells. 

The two make their way in relative silence, with Curry grabbing his arm to steady herself as they hiked farther into the wilderness. The birds chirped, the animals chittered, and the Umpire's voice could be heard counting once more.

**"STRIKE THREE."**

**"Strike FOUR!"**

The two players share a glance. Bevan smirks. Curry rolls her eyes.

"Sounds like Wyatt's taking his time." Muses the wizard.

"Wasting it, more like." Hisses the imp.

\---

End.


End file.
